Herta Müller - The Appointment

Albu never refers to the finger. Neither do I. Next day at ten sharp his sly forgetfulness is obvious. It was winking at me with every kiss of the hand. After the finger I no longer visit the bathroom at Albu’s.

Nausea makes me soft, but sometimes it can be contagious, and when I want to infect others with my own revulsion, then I toughen up. The one person I told about the yellow-gray candy wrapper and its contents was Lilli. It was my first day back at the factory after three days with Albu. Nobody asked where I’d been. Nelu filled the time with furtive glances, by making coffee, airing the office and neatly stacking papers. I’d already made up my mind about the button samples he’d laid out on my desk that afternoon in a semicircle. But I couldn’t say that the white ones were as beautiful as tooth enamel, the brown ones as open nutshells, the gray as raindrops in the dust.

After work I took Lilli to the café and got straight to the point. I skipped the outer shell and started right at the core. That’s why Lilli twirled a strand of hair around her forefinger and backed her chair away from me. She thought I wouldn’t notice, but a gap had opened up, I wasn’t blind. Those mean slits of eyes were sharpened into daggers as she asked:

Are you sure it was a human finger.

That stubbornly cold tobacco flower was doing whatever it could to resist catching my nausea. I balled my hand into a fist and, holding it at the corner of the table, extended my index finger over the edge.

All right, what’s this.

Take your finger away, she said.

Can it be mistaken for anything else.

I’ve seen it, take your finger away.

What was it you saw, a cigarette or a bird’s foot.

Isn’t it enough that I believe you, or do I have to say it.

Oh, so you believe me after all. I’m so lucky — how gracious of you.

I was gracious too, and since I didn’t want to torment Lilli any longer, I retracted my finger and refrained from asking whether alley cats ate human fingers. Or how long it took a nail to blacken. Nor did I tell Lilli how afraid I was of the finger-hungry foxgloves in the garden, blooming on their long, slender stems. Or that, in the nausea of my poppy-seed cake, I had considered returning the package to Albu: that too was something I kept to myself. Or that while the package was floating in the river I found myself imagining how at ten sharp the next morning Albu would ask to have it back.

Last winter I bought myself a small jar of pickles at the grocer’s next to the factory, Lilli said, and finished them in two sittings. The last ones I had to fish out with a fork, and when I pulled the fork out it was holding one pickle and one mouse. Isn’t that more horrible than a finger.

But the mouse wound up in the pickles on its own, I said. And even if someone in the canning factory did put it in the jar on purpose, it wasn’t meant for you. After all, anyone could have bought the pickles.

Anyone could have, but I was the one who did.

As if she was trying to defend Albu, Lilli ran her fingers through the hair at the back of her neck. Her hair was fluffed up behind her, and we sat facing each other in silence, our eyes refusing to meet. Out of nowhere, Lilli said:

I really have to pay my electric bill tomorrow.

Lilli and I had grown used to being together with silences that ran longer than the acceptable conversational lulls. And when one of us resumed talking, she would say whatever came into her head. When you know each other well enough, the mouse after the finger and the silence after the mouse and the electric bill after the silence are all one and the same thing. Then you go on talking, about something you never actually mention. And your forehead and mouth are as far apart as they can be.

There were two lines in front of the wooden cabins at the flea market; a young policeman was making sure nobody did his business outside, against the fence. The first toilet was missing a door and was unoccupied, but even so there were two lines. A man came out of the second carrying the door in his arms. He handed it to another man who’d been fidgeting outside the first toilet for some time; this man backed his way inside, putting the door up after him. Only then did the man who’d already been to the toilet button up his fly. His shoes were sprinkled.

Why don’t you let him go first, a woman in sunglasses asked, he’s still a little boy. A boy wearing shorts and sandals was lifting her dress and crying, she slapped him on the hands:

Leave my dress alone, stop it.

Let him cry, one man said, then he won’t have to pee so often.

He took a matchbox out of his pocket and rattled it in front of the boy’s face:

I’ll let you have these.

The boy shook his head.

What’s your name.

Zuckerfloh, the child said.

Your name isn’t Zuckerfloh, the man said, that’s not what they call you, and he rattled the matchbox. Then he said to the mother:

Don’t worry, it’s only sunflower seeds.

The woman took hold of the boy by the scruff of his neck:

Go on, tell him what your name is.

The child raised his arm to shield his face. Then it was too late, the water ran down his legs onto his sandals. I turned around and went back to Paul:

I can’t get a door.

He had sold the last two aerials and was lounging on his bike. He tossed the bare string into the air.

What do you say to that.

Paul had stashed the money for my ring in his trouser pocket, where it was safe. He walked with me back to the cabins. There were still two lines. The door was a piece of sheet metal the size of a tabletop. Flies were buzzing, the people in lines were quarreling, you could see their gold-and-black molars, the worn-down stumps and gaps between the teeth. Paul pushed his way forward. Deals were struck:

You’ll get my door. Then I’ll get it. Then he will.

But as soon as the next person had relieved himself and carried out the door, whatever deals had been made were instantly forgotten. People were desperate, there was shouting. The policeman was leaning against the fence, munching cookies and cleaning one fingernail after the other with a red plastic comb.

Stop shouting, he ordered without looking up.

Why don’t you help the people who need it, said a woman with a ponytail. I’m pregnant, I can’t stand up any longer, my feet are ready to drop off.

Where are you pregnant, an old woman asked, giving the policeman a look. Maybe in your ass, because you sure don’t have much of a belly.

I’m not a referee, the policeman said.

The pregnant woman: Christ Almighty, it’s easier to have twins than get hold of this door.

And it’s better to have twins than two peg legs, the policeman laughed. I’ll make sure you get the door before your feet really do break off.

He slipped the comb into his jacket, crammed a piece of cookie into his mouth, and stood in front of the occupied toilet.

That’s right, pregnant or not, she gets the door next, she’s been standing here for ages.

The pregnant woman promised Paul her door. When she came out of the toilet, she let go of the sheet metal before she could see who was tugging at it. The fat man who was supposed to be behind Paul waved his hands and swore, it was his door now. Paul never took his eyes off the toilet, and when the door started to wobble from inside, Paul grabbed hold of it and hoisted it away.

Hey, not while I’m at my devotions, not so fast, the fat man said, inside the shithouse you’re communing with God, and outside you find that all hell’s broken loose.

With God, said the policeman, or else just with some jackass who just went inside the shithouse and who happens to look exactly like you.

Paul shoved me into the cabin and positioned the sheet of metal in front. It turned out there was no roof, and heaven sent down its meddlesome green flies. Two filthy boards for standing on lay over a hole in the ground. It would have been easy to slip. I searched for two dry spots. Written on the wall in red paint was: